Hopelessly Devoted
by nine miles to go
Summary: What Rachel didn’t understand was that Bruce had always loved her, no matter how hard she tried to hurt him. Pre Batman Begins, high school fic.
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: I don't own anything of Batman.

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Chapter One 

Rachel stood in front of the mirror, carefully primping. She wished her mother had let her use make-up sooner. She wished her mother had let her use make-up at all. Now she was crouching in front of a mirror with a clumped mascara wand and a container of some sort of face powder that was probably older than she was without any idea of what to do with them. To make matters worse, her mother was out schmoozing with some coworkers of hers, leaving Rachel on her own to straighten herself out for the Homecoming dance.

On a brighter note, this meant that her mom could not chaperone the affair. Her parents were both teachers at the Pinebrook Academy of Gotham, an embarrassing angst-worthy situation if there ever were one for a high school junior. At least it meant she could attend private school for free. Otherwise she and Bruce would have been separated, like they had been in middle school.

The third time the useless stick of mascara slipped and marred her otherwise clear face with black inky gunk, she finally just set it down and buried her head in her hands. She didn't want to go to the stupid Homecoming dance. It was more for freshmen and sophomores, anyway—it was lame and supervised by half the teachers in the academy. Not to mention that her date wasn't exactly all she'd hoped for.

Admittedly it wasn't as if Rachel had had much of a choice, only accepting someone's offer to the dance the day before. Gary Steinmoor, who was generally thought to be good-looking and suave, was the lucky bidder. Rachel knew he was too dim-witted for her tastes. Bruce knew it even better than she did.

Which was why she was going to the dance with Gary in the first place: to make Bruce mad.

It was a juvenile idea that she knew was far beneath her level of maturity. She hadn't done something this silly and impulsive since the third grade. But she was just so furious with him that it seemed like there was no other outlet for her passion but to throw it right back in Bruce's face. And what better way than to cling herself to one of the boys Bruce had no respect for?

So she'd specially borrowed one of her mother's cocktail dresses and had her friend pull her hair up in a fancy bun. Normally Rachel didn't care all that much about what she looked like—she knew she was a pretty girl, and so she often decided not to worry—but tonight she needed to be beautiful. Anything that would dig at him. More than anything she wanted to get a rise out of Bruce, however dirty and deceptive it felt.

Rachel knew she shouldn't want to hurt him so much. Bruce was the best friend she'd ever had. They understood each other more deeply than they understood anyone. She would go so far as to say that she was the only one he'd ever trusted to tell his innermost thoughts, and she was proud to be his confidant. Not because he was Bruce Wayne, heir to Gotham's most impressive riches, but because he was just Bruce, who she'd always secretly longed to be just like since she was a child.

When they were younger it was always Bruce who sought adventure. She couldn't remember when he became such a daredevil and she, in turn, a nervous nelly, but they'd soon conformed into their roles like an old, comfortable mattress conforms to a sleeping body. Maybe it was sometime after his parents' funeral that their temperaments had shifted so drastically. But since then they'd been living their same pattern of life: Bruce, high on his own adrenaline, would taunt her by doing something dangerous and potentially harmful right in front of her, and she'd look on and fret impossibly.

Then he'd do it. Whatever it was. Bruce would scale the vines alongside the manor and make it to the roof, or he'd mock the neighbors' attack dogs and jump back over the fence just in the nick of time, or he'd lie in the middle of the road at night and pretend to fall asleep while she stood on the sidewalk nearly suffering from a mini-stroke as she looked on.

Bruce loved the shock factor. Every time she was amazed at the stupid, menial tasks that he would set himself to, because they seemed so reckless and unfeasible. And yes, she did worry. Terribly. With every stunt he performed her anxiety grew worse and worse, and she feared that one day he'd go too far—but seventeen years had passed and Bruce still had skirted through life, however narrowly.

Rachel's secret, though, was that she wished she could be like Bruce. He was brave, even if it were for all the wrong reasons. Although he might have been dumb and compulsive about his feats, she longed to be as bold as he was. Usually being with him was enough to quell that desire, though. She was the practical one. It was her responsibility to keep Bruce under control.

But not tonight. She smiled at her clown-like self in the mirror, trying to puff out her lip or do whatever it took to make herself look more appealing. Tonight she had every intention of making _Bruce _fret and worry. She'd had enough of it herself. It was time to make him squirm and regret everything he'd said to her the day before.

It was rare that Rachel and Bruce fought. Their relationship was mostly platonic, but never shallow. So of course they occasionally dug up matters that stung. They talked about everything. They were bound to bring up a sore subject after awhile.

Somehow they'd gotten on the subject of Gary Steinmoor and his "pathetic little crush" on her.

_"What do you mean, pathetic?" She laughed a little once she'd asked, but there was a strain to the question. Did he mean to imply that only a pathetic person would have a crush on her? _

_Bruce only shrugged in his usual manner. Never bothering to make eye contact, smirking that smirk. "I just can't believe he'd have a thing for you, I guess," he'd said lightly. _

_Rachel's eyes widened at him. How dare he say that so casually! As if she were not worthy of Gary Steinmoor's attention. "And what do you mean by that?" she said in a low voice. She didn't want to fight about this. It seemed trivial. But Bruce had to learn that he couldn't just throw words in the air like that and insult people, and this time she really felt hurt by what he'd said. _

_For a change he looked over at her, surprised. "Oh, come _on_, Rachel. _You_ dating a guy like Gary Steinmoor—_"

_Now she was certainly miffed. She leapt to her feet. "I could if I wanted to," she hissed in a voice that didn't even sound like her own. She knew she was overacting. But it wasn't the first time he'd made this sort of insinuation, and she was fed up. She was seventeen years old now, and perfectly dateable. Not to sound like an egomaniac, but she knew she was good-looking and smart and sometimes even a bit quirky. Who was Bruce Wayne to say Gary would never date her? _

_"You'd _want _to?" Bruce asked, looking astonished. _

_"Well," she said brashly, "yes. Maybe I do. Is that a problem?" _

_She waited for his face to show some hint of emotion. Anything to know she'd hurt him, so for once in the past year he'd know she'd eked any sort of reaction out of him. But he remained just as stoic and composed as ever. It made her want to hit him with something. Did he care so little for her that he would never even give her half a glance? Who did he think he was, trying to dictate who would and who would not date her, as if he had some claim on her? _

_And yes, to some degree, they'd had some sort of unspoken claim on each other since they both wore pull-ups. They always went to school dances together, but nothing more. They were friends, but even as friends there was always the faint idea that they were only biding their time, taking it slow. _

_Now she was enraged. She'd never even been kissed, and she suddenly laid the blame on Bruce. If they hadn't been play-acting boyfriend and girlfriend at all the dances, maybe she would have a normal boyfriend who would smile and compliment her and notice when she wore perfume to impress him. _

_Of course Bruce only stared straight ahead. For the life of her she could never figure out what was more engaging off in the distance than whatever conversations they were having. "In fact," she said unsteadily, "Gary already asked to the Homecoming dance." _

_"Oh?" Bruce deadpanned. _

_"Yes. He did. And you know what? I'm going with him. So you can just find a date all on your own, because I'm sure as heck not going anywhere with you tomorrow night." _

_Then she stalked out of the manor. This time she didn't even bother to look back at Bruce's face; it wasn't worth it, when she already knew he'd be staring after her blankly without a clue of what he did. Typical. He never noticed when he irked her. _

_So she'd find a way to make him notice. It only took her a minute to get Gary Steinmoor on the phone to say "yes." _

Now she was the bold one, and Bruce was the one she was leaving to watch from the sidelines. It gave her an odd sort of pleasure, to think that she might have some power over him. With every different splash of make-up or little beauty trick she used to make herself glamorous she yearned even more for the satisfaction of knowing that she'd hurt him, so for once it would be him and not her. Rachel felt as though she were planning to squish an unwitting bug tonight. Bruce deserved it, after all these years of taking her for granted. He couldn't rightly assume she'd always be there if he didn't pay attention to her once in awhile.

Rachel hoped she wasn't demanding too much of him. She was by no means the type of girl who fished for compliments. She never openly sought attention or embellished to make herself seem savvier. Despite that, even she needed acknowledgment every now and then. A saint would be annoyed by Bruce's constantly serious, unaffected manner.

Thus she justified her current misgivings toward the boy. The doorbell rang then, jolting her out of her thoughts. Quickly she dabbed on some lip gloss and wiped away the last tale-tell mascara smudge by her eye. Then she leapt down the stairs of the little house she and her parents shared to answer the door.

Gary whistled appreciatively and she felt herself blush.

"Whoa, Dawes. You're smokin'," he said with a lopsided grin.

She shrank giddily in delight. "Aw, thanks, Gary. You look quite handsome yourself," she shot back.

For a moment he stared straight into her eyes. They were soft and blue, as far from Bruce's cold and vacant brown eyes as humanly possible. Gary really looked at her. Noticed her.

"May I?" he asked. There was a corsage in his hand. Oh, how thoughtful of him. She doubted Bruce would ever go out of his way like that and it made her all the more determined to go through with this.

"Of course," she said somewhat breathlessly, letting him adjust the creamy-white corsage on her wrist. "It's gorgeous."

"Well, so are you."

She reddened further. A part of her was fully aware of how corny he sounded, but she was too tickled to care. Nobody had ever paid this much attention to her all throughout high school.

"The car's out in the street still. We'd better go," he said, peering in the doorway.

"Oh, no one's home," she explained, rolling her eyes. "You may have escaped an epic camera attack."

His eyebrows raised. "Where are your parents at?"

"Business meeting." She reached for her shawl and much to her delight, he stepped forward to help her slip it on her shoulders. She shot him a wide smile. "Saves some embarrassment at least."

He took her hand. "Now parents, I can deal with. Impressing a girl like you . . ." he joked.

"Don't be stupid," she giggled, letting him lead her to his car. It occurred to her that she sounded like an airhead, but she felt too light and carefree to pay it much mind. Her blood was pumping and tingling from her toes to her fingers. So this was what it felt like to be daring. To be like Bruce.

He even opened the door for her. "Your carriage, m'lady," he said in a fake British accent. He slid into the driver's seat and rubbed her shoulder as he started up the car. "We're gonna have the night of our lives."

Oh, if only he knew, she thought, hiding her smile with her newly-manicured hand.

* * *

Rachel remembered why she'd thought Homecoming was lame the moment she arrived. The childish plastic string lights hung up everywhere, her French teacher giving her a thumbs-up from the corner, the dance floor teeming with underclassmen. Not to mention that the academy's tiny gym was near suffocating when packed with its thousand-person student body.

It occurred to her as she smiled forcedly at the staff of Gotham's Pinebrook Academy that Bruce had absolutely no reason to show up. Her heart fell. How stupid of her, to think she could pull this off. Bruce would know that she was using Gary as bait to irk him. Bruce knew her so well that he probably was aware of her ill-planned scheme before she was. He was so calculating and aware. Here she was thinking she could catch him off guard when he was probably just patiently waiting this through in that intolerable way he always did.

Bruce was cocky and acted like he knew everything. What was more annoying, though, was that he was rightfully superior. He was a step ahead of her and everyone else, always.

She felt like a fool for thinking she would actually run into him here. Not that Bruce would have any trouble getting a replacement date, but it just wasn't something he'd do.

Rachel bit her lip. So she wasn't being like Bruce at all.

But there was still Gary. Even if she'd brought him here with the wrong intentions, it didn't mean she couldn't enjoy the experience. So her English teachers were serving Hawaiian Punch and Sprite. So a flabby decoration from the sixties-inspired dance floor had nearly fell on top of her. So a freshman had tried to grind with her before she scooted away. So _what_? She had Gary who, quite frankly, was not too shabby on the eyes, and actually liked her and thought she was pretty in her navy blue cocktail dress. Just because the night wouldn't be all that she'd hoped for didn't mean that she couldn't savor it while it lasted.

The first slow song played an hour and a half into the dance. A perfect gentleman, Gary took her waist with ease and escorted her to the middle of the gym. Never once did he break eye contact, his eyes set on her warmly. She rested her head on her shoulder. This was everything she'd ever wanted out of a boyfriend, let alone a dance.

But she'd wanted it to be Bruce. It wasn't the same with Gary, and no matter how hard she tried to force it, she couldn't make herself believe that he was anything compared to the Bruce she knew and loved.

It made her feel sick to her stomach. There was no legitimate reason to defend her stupidity this time. Thank God Bruce was merciful enough to avoid the dance. Now he wouldn't see her being this immature and irrational, clinging to a guy she barely knew for the sake of making him . . . jealous.

She swallowed hard, closing her eyes as the song faded out. It wasn't just that she wanted Bruce to regret what he'd said. A part of her wanted him to notice her, as more than a friend for once. Maybe she was just sick of being his tag-along friend. Sick of being his excuse to all the girls who asked him out—"No, I have a girlfriend already. Rachel Dawes," he'd say to avoid any hard feelings to his adoring fan club—when she was anything _but_ his girlfriend. She probably couldn't have wooed him if she tried.

The thought of it made her sink further into her already cavernous hole of self-pity. How miserable she felt, admitting to herself the true reasons behind this silly game of hers. Rachel was just as pathetic as the brainless girls who followed Bruce in hallways and memorized his schedule to effectively stalk him. Only she didn't have to watch from the sidelines like they did. She had full access, all the time.

Which made it all the more frustrating. If she were to admit how she felt, would he cast her aside in the same way he had all those other wannabes? Bruce depended on her to be his friend. He needed her for that, and he'd never hinted at wanting anything more. And how pitiful would it seem if she were the one to bring up the idea and he said no?

It was terrifying to think over. Rachel felt like such a coward. Instead of taking a chance on Bruce, she'd tricked herself into thinking she was taking a chance with Gary.

The song ended and they parted. She grinned up at him, hoping it didn't look too forced. Who would know, under the dim florescent lighting?

"I'm going to grab a drink," she excused herself.

"Oh, I'll get it for you," Gary offered.

Rachel bit her lip. The tables had suddenly reversed in her mind, and she was annoyed at him for being so considerate. Bruce would knew her better than this. When she said she wanted a drink, she really was leaving so she could catch a moment alone. Something she figured only Bruce would have been able to detect from the small shift of her eyebrows.

"No, no. Really. I'll get it. I'll only be a second," she said with an awkward little laugh. Then she tore away from him and headed toward the cafeteria before he could follow.

Once she was out of the gym and into the hallway she tried to relax. All in all she had caused little damage. Bruce, as usual, would charitably ignore this little episode of hers. Gary would have three different girls asking him out the second the dance was over and wouldn't miss Rachel all that much. The only task to complete was the rest of the evening. The instant she returned home she could change into her pajamas, pull down this constricting hairdo and sink into the mattress. Sleep. That's what she wanted to do now. Sleep this whole ordeal away until it became nothing more than a vaguely bad dream.

Her friend Samantha caught her arm on her way to the beverage line. "You look stunning, my dear," she said appreciatively.

Rachel smiled up at her to the best of her ability. "Thanks," she said graciously. "If it weren't for this hair you managed to tame—"

Samantha waved her off. "No problem, girl. I love doing hair." She was about to turn the hallway into the gym again, but she stopped in front of Rachel again. Her head swiveled back to the cafeteria, her lips parting in confusion. "Why aren't you with Bruce?"

At the mention of his name Rachel couldn't help but swallow compulsively. She did that whenever she was nervous, and now it seemed that every inch of her body was quaking with regret. "Oh. Well, he couldn't make it tonight."

Samantha frowned. "But he's in the cafeteria."

It felt like the breath had been knocked out of her. Like someone had punched her in the chest. "What?"

Her friend cocked her head back to the cafeteria doors. "He's in there sitting at one of the tables." She frowned in concern. "Is there something wrong, honey? Usually it takes a mallet to pry the two of you apart."

"I, uh." Shit. She had grown so used to the idea of Bruce missing the dance that she hadn't considered he would actually show. "Oh, we're fine. I just thought he was out of town." She laughed unnaturally. "Typical Bruce, forgetting to call. Oh, well. I'll see you later, Sam."

"Yeah, see you." Samantha's eyes lingered on her for a moment, like she couldn't quite believe Rachel's half-assed explanation, but she was understanding enough to let sleeping dogs lie and leave Rachel alone.

Breathlessly she entered the gym. For a moment she ducked her head, not wanting him to see her but wanting more than anything for him to see at the same time. It was the two seconds she needed to gage where he was. Without looking she could tell he was sitting at the table by the window, and it seemed he was alone. She only knew where he was so instantaneously because she could feel his stare tracing her every step across the room.

All at once she felt so gawky. As if she were under a microscope lens. Her heels seemed to click too loudly, her lips felt too glossy, her hair felt too tight. Did he notice? The tips of her ears were burning. Did he notice that, too?

Thoughtlessly she waited through the drink line, grabbing a Hawaiian Punch with a little umbrella sticking out of it. She took a sip and looked up, accidentally locking eyes with Bruce. Now there was no avoiding him. She'd already been thick enough to pretend she hadn't seen him the first time she'd walked through the room, and it would only make her seem even more immature if she turned her back on him now.

His eyes were locked on her for once. They were not at all judgmental as she feared. In fact, they were just as unreadable as they always were. Rachel had never used his eyes to determine his mood, but rather his nervous ticks, because his eyes always remained so hard and fixed. When he was angry he would tap a foot. When he was anxious he would crack his knuckles. When he was melancholy he would clench and unclench his fists repeatedly. It was a code so secret and sacred to her that she doubted Bruce even realized it himself.

Now Bruce was not moving at all. Merely sitting there, watching her as she pulled out a chair and sat beside him without a word. She searched his eyes, wondering if she could detect any subtle differences, but there were none.

"You came," she said lightly.

He nodded. His gaze strayed back over to the tabletop, away from her. He looked . . . haggard. Tired. Unlike himself.

"So?" she asked. His brow furrowed questioningly, so she elaborated. "Who did you come with?"

"I came alone," he said simply.

It shouldn't have surprised her, but it did. He hadn't sunk as low as she had by finding another date to fill the void. Her tongue felt dry as sandpaper, and she wanted to fall at his feet and say she was sorry for being so thoughtless and trying to hurt him. She would never do it again, she'd promise.

Rachel cleared her throat and stared up at him. Damn it all, why did he always seem so handsome, even when she was furious with him? She paused a moment. What was she even furious with him for? A stupid little fight. It hadn't even meant anything, and she'd taken it too far.

But she couldn't admit that. Not to his face.

"I came with Gary," Rachel said before she could stop herself. She had heard the term "word vomit" before and now she understood what it meant.

"I know."

"We've been dancing. I just stopped to grab something to drink." _God, _why couldn't she just shut the hell up? This was only making matters worse. Bruce already knew what she was doing here. And now in her attempt to make awkward conversation, she was only rubbing salt on the wound.

Bruce's lips curved slightly into a smirk. "Yeah, I can see that."

In a near desperate manner Rachel forced herself to chug the rest of her drink, if only to escape this table and the looming cloud of dread that seemed to be hovering over the pair of them. She finished and stood from the table. "I suppose I'll see you later."

He let her take a few steps away first. Then she heard him murmur, "You're beautiful."

She stopped in her tracks. "What?" she said, turning around to face him.

His expression was enough to make her knees weak. It was as if the stony ridges that were holding his stoic face together, or had cracked, if only for a moment, and unveiled a hint of the storm brewing beneath. She couldn't suspect that he was mocking her. He looked so sincere, sitting there with his hands held together and his mouth tensed in a hard, determined line.

After a moment or two he asked, "Isn't that what you wanted me to say?"

How could she respond to that? _Yes. I've waited years to hear you say that. All this time of hanging on your every word, hoping you would notice me . . ._ it felt so dirty and selfish of her now. She'd gotten what she wanted, but look what she'd done to him in order to get it.

"I . . ."

"You should get back to Gary." If there were any bitterness in his voice, he was adept at hiding it. He sounded more weary of her than anything. "He's probably wondering where you are."

She felt the heat rushing up in her face, threatening to spill out of her eyes with thick tears as she walked away. But not in the middle of the school. She was too proud to make a scene in front of everyone, or at least too afraid to handle the repercussions of it. Finally she left the cafeteria, holding her head as high as she could, knowing that Bruce's eyes were no longer trailing her but instead staring at nothingness as they usually did. He was letting her go. He was sending her off to do whatever she pleased.

It made her furious. It made her doubt what she really wanted. She wanted Bruce to recognize that she deserved freedom from being "Bruce's girl" when she was nothing of the sort. That he should not be able to dictate her life all the time. But she wanted Bruce to recognize how much she needed him to take control at the same time! She knew she loved him. She'd always known, even if she'd never say anything. So why hadn't Bruce come forward and said anything?

Rachel was aware that she was being fickle and asking for too much of him. She just couldn't help herself. It was the culmination of years worth of mixed feelings toward Bruce that were slowly ebbing at their so solidified and intricate friendship. Either they ignored these feelings forever and let their friendship dwindle into a phone call every month or so, or they took a chance on each other. Now, not later. She may have sounded rash but she had always been the type to have plans and be wary of the future, and if some defining event did not take place soon and distinguish them between friends-with-benefits and friends-who-fell-in-love, they would never . . .

Never what? End up with a nice house with a white picket fence, three kids and a dog? Like that would ever happen with Bruce Wayne. Yet another fantasy he could not fulfill. Why, then, did she insist on doing this to herself? Dreaming of a life with a man who could never give her all she wanted?


	2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Gary's beaming face startled her when she came across him in the gym. "Hey, good-looking."

Never before had a smile felt so foreign on her face. Thankfully Gary didn't seem to notice. "Hey."

He stared at her hesitantly for a moment and said, "Look, Rachel. I know that that Bruce kid is here, and I know that . . . there's probably some awkward feelings between the two of you."

Oh, god. Did everyone know? Maybe they could tell just by looking at her. Her stomach fell. "Um." Talking was clearly not her forte tonight.

"I've already had a great time tonight. If you want to go home . . ."

"You wouldn't mind?" she said, hoping her voice didn't sound as desperate as she was.

"Of course not. I was getting a little tired of this whole scene anyway. I mean, come on. Sixties glam?" He gestured out in the hall. "It looks more like a seven-year-old's luau."

She rolled her eyes. "I know, right?" It was horrifying to her that her thoughts and emotions were so out in the open that even Gary, who barely knew her, could detect the awkwardness between her and Bruce. She decided though that she should be more relieved. At least she didn't have to bear another second of this painstakingly endless night.

"C'mon." He took her arm, escorting her to the parking lot. It seemed to her that it was unnecessary to pass the cafeteria on the way out, but he led her that way, and she was too frazzled to protest. So she had to endure what seemed like the slowest fifteen seconds of her life as she passed Bruce by, her arm linked to Gary Steinmoor's.

Rachel stole a glance at him as they passed. His head was down, staring into his lap. She'd like to think that he hadn't seen her. But she knew she couldn't make a mistake this big and be that lucky.

* * *

Gary said he wanted to stop by his buddy's place and grab a book he was borrowing. It was straight on the way to her house, and she figured it she had already been enough of a burden by making him leave early, so she assured him she didn't mind one bit. They parked in the lot of an apartment building.

"It'll only be a second," he said apologetically. Then he scoped the parking lot. "Actually, would you mind coming up with me? I just don't like the idea of leaving you here by yourself. It's getting kind of late."

"Sure," she complied, following him up. They took the stairs. She didn't meant to judge, but she really didn't like the looks of the building. The concrete walls were stained and off-colored and it smelled too damp for its own good. She found it hard to believe that someone who attended Gotham's Pinebrook Academy, education for the elite, would live in a place like this. But then again, she was on scholarship. Maybe Gary's friend was, too.

"Who are you borrowing the book from?" she asked.

It took Gary a moment to answer. "You wouldn't know him, he doesn't go to Pinebrook."

"Try me. I went to public school until I was thirteen, so odds are I might have heard of him."

Gary stopped in front of a greenish, dingy-looking door. "Ah, well, he just moved here from . . . New York."

"Oh." She was too tired to continue prodding him. Oddly enough he produced a key from his pocket and turned it in the lock. Alarm bells started ringing in her head, and she took a step back.

He grabbed her arm. "It'll take two seconds."

She was too stricken by the gesture to pull away immediately. Instead she looked up at his face, which looked altogether more menacing in the dim light of the narrow hallway. His eyes kept darting in all different directions, never once looking back at her. She knew that something was wrong here. That Gary wasn't really coming here to borrow a book from someone. But she was so astonished by this epiphany that she froze.

Rachel Dawes knew she was an intelligent, level-headed girl. In fact, she spent the better part of her time wishing she were more whimsical than practical, because it seemed like her life was so boring. Always making the right decisions. Always being the responsible one.

Now here she was, in her first real shred of trouble, and she couldn't even absorb that she might have made a mistake. Sure, she'd been stupid this evening by trying to get Bruce's attention. Sure, she'd been vain and empty-headed and paid for it with her shame.

She hadn't expected this. That Gary would be anything less than charming and kind.

At first she didn't say anything. Just pulled away, hoping it was a mistake on his part and he would step back in embarrassment and mumble a boyish apology for grabbing her.

The second she moved he gripped her arm tighter.

"Hey," she stammered, surprised. "Let go."

To her horror Gary didn't say anything. He grunted, kicking the door open with his foot once it was unlocked. "Hey!" she repeated, louder this time. "What are you—?" His hand clamped over her mouth and she desperately squirmed as he pushed her through the door, struggling to make any sort of noise that may alert someone down the hall. Instinctively she knew no one was coming for her.

"Would you quit it?" Gary demanded through clenched teeth. "We don't have to make this . . . so . . . difficult—shit!"

She bit him. It was impulsive, unplanned, but it worked. In the two seconds her mouth was freed she gasped and the most unholy scream erupted from her. "Help!" she managed just before his hand clamped down on her hard.

The room was so brightly lit that she had to squint at first to adjust after the dank hallway. All throughout the room there were couples draped in various unsavory positions . . . spread out on beds, couches, even beanbag chairs. She looked up at him wildly. This couldn't be real. She would close her eyes again and she would realize she'd nodded off in his car on the way back home, and he would gently shake her awake and walk her to the door . . .

Her heart was beating so fast she thought it might burst out of her ribcage. She moaned, staring up at him, trying to plead with him to change his mind.

"Shut the hell up," Gary hissed at her. He slammed the door closed with his foot and she despaired as the only exit was barred from her. "What's your deal, anyway? I just wanna have a little fun, is all. Can't a guy have a little fun after a night out with his girl?"

Her eyes flitted through the room. Someone would stand up for her in here. Anyone. The girl in the corner with the red thong or the couple making out by the sink or the drunken half-asleep man on the couch . . . Couldn't they see what Gary was trying to do? Couldn't they see she was being held here against her will?

Why didn't anyone do something?

It was Gotham. It was this whole damn city. Nobody even cared! Nobody was even giving her so much a second glance, as if it were commonplace to watch a high school boy shove a girl into a dirty apartment building for God-only-knew-what.

She hit the wall with a thud and the other occupants of the room blurred. Her eyes were watering, but she was still aware of his sweaty, burning hands shoving her in place. With all the energy she could muster she screamed, but he was faster than she was. At first she thought he'd shoved a wet rag in her mouth, but it was his lips, pressing hard against hers. She thrashed her head from side to side.

"No, no, no."

"God damn it, Rachel, it doesn't have to be—"

A deafening crack resounded through the room. Gary's grip on her slackened in bewilderment and she slid to her knees, hiccupping uncontrollably. "Holy . . ." she gasped. The door had been split straight open, caving into the room from some outside force.

"I swear to God, Steinmoor," an all too familiar voice rumbled, "that if you lay so much as one hand on her—"

"Bruce," she wheezed in relief. She clutched her heart as if to stop its beating.

Gary, not missing a beat, stepped up and punched Bruce square in the jaw. "This is none of your business, Wayne," he sneered, watching with satisfaction as Bruce hit the floor, unprepared for the blow. "This is between me and Rachel." Bruce struggled to his feet, up before Rachel could even start to worry, but Gary didn't play fair. He kicked Bruce in the gut, knocking him swiftly to the floor, and made another quick aim for his face.

"Stop it!" Rachel screamed. "Please, don't hurt him—"

Bruce didn't move and she felt herself curling into a ball, looking away. Oh, please, no, she thought. This couldn't end so badly. This could only be a nightmare, but there was Bruce, crumpled on the floor on her account. How could she be so naïve? So brainless and trusting? So . . . mean?

She was paying the price for her immaturity. This was her karma, this was the misfortune that she had inevitably caused with her folly. She had done this to hurt Bruce . . . if only she'd known how well she would succeed.

Gary was rounding back on her, a revolting smirk stretched across his face. He was hideous in his delusion of power. She backed up against the wall, pressing in on herself and shutting her eyes. How could I let this happen? How could I be such a fool?

Then Gary flew to the floor. Bruce was at his feet, albeit shakily, his face contorted in more fury and wrath than she had ever seen him express. Blood dripped from his lip and she could already see the sheen of a nasty bruise developing around his eye. He wouldn't even look at her, his hatred fixed on Gary alone.

Several people in the room started, alarmed by this turn of events. They would defend Gary if they hadn't defended her. She opened her mouth to warn Bruce, but he interrupted her.

"Rachel," he rasped, "get to the car."

She scrambled to her feet. "Bruce, I'm so—"

"I said get in the damn car, Rachel," he barked. They were circling in on him. It was a fight no man could win alone, and she certainly wasn't going to be able to help, standing on the sidelines like a gaping fish. And she couldn't disobey him. There was some tremor in his voice she had never before heard—was it fear?—and it compelled her to listen.

Her feet were flying beneath her, tumbling effortlessly down the stairs. She could suddenly grasp Bruce's so-called bravery. She understood what fueled his insane antics. It was the adrenaline rush behind it—she was on fire, she wasn't even trying. It took only a second to locate Bruce's Lamborghini. It was unlocked. She tore the door open and flung herself inside, not taking a second to catch her breath before she was certain every door was locked.

Then slowly the adrenaline faded. And all she felt was . . . hollow. Empty.

This was what it was like to be Bruce Wayne?

She should move. Find a phone somewhere and call 911. Alert the authorities. For the life of her, though, Rachel couldn't move. Like a child she was clutching herself to the door of the car, immobile and terrified. She barely even breathed. Waiting, as if she could freeze time and go backward, stop herself from letting this happens.

If Bruce is hurt, it will be all my fault.

Her heart was still hammering, but she'd never felt so much dread in her entire life.

If Bruce dies . . .

Her thoughts fleeted back to his expression. How ghastly and foreign it seemed to her in that foul, sullied room. It hadn't looked at all like the Bruce she knew and loved. All this effort she'd put into getting a rise out of him, and now she'd been delivered a stranger. His eyes were the real change. They'd been burning. The void, cold look of them had been entirely melted by sheer rage.

What had she done? How long would she be here, gasping and waiting on edge for him to return? Would he return at all?

Tears seeped soundlessly down her cheeks, ruining her. She'd ripped her mother's good cocktail dress and her high heels had been nicked. She could feel the clumpy make-up falling apart on her once immaculate face. All she was, when it came down to it, was a little girl playing dress-up. A game she thought she couldn't lose, until there had been an objective. Now the innocence of this game was lost, and Bruce would be the price she had to pay.

A knock came at the window of the Lamborghini and a small shriek escaped her. Through the tinted glass she could make out Bruce's battered form, and her throat hitched in concern. He swung the door open, checking momentarily to make sure she was secured in the vehicle, and took off without a word.

She was too afraid to speak. For the few blocks they drove she only watched his face in utter disbelief and unease. He was bleeding—she couldn't tell where from, but it was trickling deeply down his forehead and dripping into his lap. His suit was torn up and she noticed a nasty gash trailing up his arm. His breathing was ragged and labored, as was her own. But he didn't so much as flinch to give away the pain. Instead he stared straight ahead, his eyes peeled diligently on the road, silent and still.

He pulled into a deserted parking lot near her house. Presumably to clean up before she came home. Bruce knew they would probably never discuss this again after tonight, and she couldn't afford to be caught by her parents.

They sat in silence for a moment, his hands still propped on the steering wheel. Finally she asked softly, "How did you know?"

He swallowed hard. "Followed you out of the school," he admitted gruffly.

She stared at him searchingly, obliging him to stare back. Reluctantly he turned his gaze over toward hers. She nearly pulled back away from him, the transformation was so shocking. His face was a mess. Not only because of the blood and battering, but because it seemed ripped and exposed. He stared at her so compassionately, so protectively, that she found her eyes watering all over again. The floodgates released and she couldn't control the onset of new tears.

"I couldn't trust him. I told you, Rachel, I don't like that kid."

"I know," she whimpered pathetically. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he said. He drew her over to him and she fell into his arms, sobbing harder than she had since she was a little girl. "You couldn't have known."

"I should have," she blubbered into his jacket. "I feel so stupid."

"Rachel Dawes, you are anything but stupid," Bruce chuckled lightly.

She shook her head. "No, I messed up, Bruce. I messed up . . . and look what they did to you," she moaned.

"Hey." He pulled her away from him for a moment so she could look him straight in the face. "Don't you worry about me at all. I can hold my own. It's you I worry about."

"You shouldn't."

He wrapped his arms around her and let her cry for awhile. Patiently he sat through her sobs, stroking her hair and soundlessly assuring her. She didn't deserve him. She'd set out tonight to torture him and here he was, faithful and steady as ever, letting her fall apart in front of him.

"Rachel," he said huskily after awhile. "I know why you went with him."

She didn't answer. Couldn't. Here was the moment of judgment, and she felt so ill-prepared.

"I called him pathetic because he wasn't good enough for you. Not because I doubted you in any way."

This time she pulled away from him and her hands were stained with his blood. "Bruce," she breathed weakly, "you need to see a doctor. Look at you."

He ignored her. He wasn't finished. "Do you know how much you scared me tonight?" he asked, his voice cracking. "Do you have any idea . . ."

Her heart felt like it was squeezing. So now she knew how much he cared . . . except how horrible, that she had to terrify him and get him into a god-awful scrape to do it. Why had she been so desperate for validation? She knew Bruce. Obviously he cared about her, or else he wouldn't be so constantly there for her, so solid like a rock.

"I'm so sorry," she repeated emphatically. "Bruce . . ."

"We should take you home."

"But—"

"We'll swing by the manor first and find you something to wear," he assured her. He smiled softly. "I know a way in. Alfred won't see."

Why was he doing this for her? She deserved to have her parents find out. She deserved to get in trouble for this, not swallow it up like it had never happened.

But this was the way of Bruce. To swallow things, like they had never happened. Tonight he would open up to her and show her how much he really did care about her, but he would pretend like it hadn't happened, and never mention it again. She knew that tomorrow afternoon this entire incident would be a nonexistent blip in their lives.

Suddenly she laughed. "I look so bad you wouldn't let Alfred see me?" she joked, shoving him lightly.

"Well," he said with a devilish look, "what with Alfred in his old age and all, I wouldn't want to be giving him a premature heart attack."

"I'm not that bad! One look at you, with your face like that—"

He grinned at her. "Wait a minute, you're telling me I look bad when I just saved your ass? Now, now, Dawes, I don't think that's quite f—"

She did it without thinking. It was the way he could smile for her benefit, even after all that had happened. It was the way he always understood what she needed. It was that Bruce had this habit of annoying the hell out of her and then being absolutely perfect when the time was right.

So she kissed him.

At first he was too shocked to respond, and she felt a last flicker of fear. But then they were lost, drinking each other in. Her reality was a blur, and she forgot about all the strife she'd endured that night as she fell closer to him, her lips dancing with her own. His hand was buried in her hair and hers clasped around his neck, the touch feeling so natural and right that she wondered why she had tortured and wrangled herself in doubt of this. It was every girlish fantasy of her first kiss relived. She closed her eyes and lost herself.

Sometime later they pulled apart breathlessly, staring at each other in disbelief.

"Wh-what was that?" Bruce managed, flabbergasted.

After all this time she'd finally accomplished what she'd set out to do: shock Bruce Wayne. She shrugged. "A thanks."

"Some thanks." He shook his head in amazement. "Jeez, Dawes. I didn't . . . I mean, I didn't expect you to—Well." If she wasn't mistaken, it appeared that the almighty untouchable Bruce Wayne may actually be blushing. He cleared his throat, regaining composure. "It's, uh, really late. We should . . ."

"Oh, yeah. Before my parents get home." She knew they wouldn't mind her being late if she came home with Bruce. They'd probably just assumed she was going with him in the first place, because she'd purposefully neglected to mention Gary before they left.

Her hair had come undone and she tucked it behind her ear—then stopped mid-gesture. Her hand was sticky and warm. As Bruce was nearing the manor she flicked on the overhead light and saw that her hands and forearms were bright, coppery red. "Bruce." Her voice came out just above a squeak as she slowly looked up at him.

He flicked off the light. "That's illegal, you know."

She had already seen before he'd had the chance to hide it. "Oh my God, Bruce."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not fine. How are you even driving?"

"Rachel," he half-laughed, "it just looks bad, okay?"

"Just looks bad?" she echoed. His entire neck was bloodied, gushing from something in his head. She shuddered. "You're hurt."

Bruce ignored her, taking the sharp turn into the driveway of the Wayne Manor. The Lamborghini slid in with an ease that belied the tension inside of it. She barely breathed—her elation had been shattered just as suddenly as it had come.


	3. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

As he had promised Bruce drove the car into a shadowed part of the Manor, where Alfred would not see them. She was hoping to come upon the old butler, though. He would know what to do. Bruce clearly wasn't thinking straight. He'd taken on . . . what was it? Four guys? Or five? And even as she saw him open the door to the car, she could see he was shaky on his feet.

It was the entrance by the greenhouse he led her to. She knew from experience that Alfred's quarters were well on the other side of the manor. What hope did she have that he would have another one of those notions that conveniently seemed to cross him just as Bruce was headed for trouble? It would be absolute betrayal if she "accidentally" bumped her elbow into one of the house's installed intercoms and set it off as she and Bruce were walking inside. Even if Bruce never found out, it would be unforgivable. Now she just had to determine what was more important—whether she should let Bruce ignore his injuries and face whatever consequences came with that, or inform on him to Alfred before it was too late.

As he walked her in she noticed that he'd dripped blood on the carpet. She didn't say anything, knowing his response would yet again be something along the lines of "It's fine," except in a more aggravated manner this time.

"Where are we . . . ?"

He'd led her to a part of the mansion she hadn't seen before: his parents' room.

It was grand and spacious, the walls a comforting ivory and the ceilings high as a cathedral's. Maybe she had been in here before. It felt like being swallowed, walking through the double doors. She remembered following Bruce in here as a little girl, giggling over a game of hide and seek. She'd lost, of course. The walls were too distracting. There were two pictures posted up on either side of the room—one of Thomas and Martha Wayne on their wedding day. Martha was soft and angelic in an old-fashioned white dress, staring away from the lens to smile up at her husband . . . but it was quite another thing to look at Thomas. When he stared back at Martha she saw Bruce, staring at her in the car. Thomas's eyes held that same intense, passionate depth to them and his mouth curled into that same bemused grin. It was a pretty picture then; it was like staring back at Bruce now.

When she was little she'd been struck with awe at the beauty of it all, and she'd stood there drinking it all in, etching it into her memory. Then Bruce had caught her, taunting her for her inability to hide.

Sometime in the years between that initial hide-and-seek game and his parents' deaths, another picture had been fixed on the other side of the room. She felt furtive, stealing a glance at it as Bruce led her through. It was nowhere near as large as the wedding shot, but it was in a way much sweeter and more noticeable. It was of Bruce and his mother, jumping around in the waves at a beach. Rachel couldn't tell who had taken the picture, but the pair of them were haloed by a rising sun, jumping into a dawn of light purples, yellows, and blues. A sunspot blocked a corner of the picture, but it only made it more touching.

Bruce purposefully did not look over at it. Instead he led her over to the closet—the place she'd intended to hide all those years ago, before the picture had caught her by surprise.

When he opened the closet she flinched. It was like intruding on hallowed ground. She had never been one for ghost stories, but it was as if she could feel the presence of the late Waynes ebbing at the dark corners of the room, circling around them. She was about to protest his opening the door, but she couldn't justify saying anything. In all fairness, it did belong to him.

He picked out one of his mother's dresses. The red one she'd worn to a benefit they'd held at the manor. Rachel remembered it well, because she and Bruce had spent the night sneaking around the edges of the party, thinking they were clever and naughty when in fact Alfred had been trailing behind them the entire time. How sparkly and grown up the red dress had seemed then.

Now she was afraid to touch it.

"Take it," Bruce insisted.

It was so light she was afraid it might slip through her hands. "I can't just . . ."

When she looked up, Bruce had already left the room. Surprised, she twisted around to try to find him, but she saw that the door had been left slightly ajar from where he'd exited. She sighed. Even after nine years he was doing all that was in his power to forget.

Slipping on the dress felt surreal. The room was cold—clearly they didn't waste energy by heating up this side of the mansion. But the frosty feeling of the room only left her feeling more unnerved and bare. As if Martha Wayne could see her donning her old benefit dress from one of those many lonely, empty corners. No wonder Bruce had left. No doubt he felt her too.

She knew she looked beautiful in it. Anyone would. The dress fit her better than any article of clothing had, adjusting itself to her forgivingly, clinging and letting loose in all the right places.

When a few minutes past and she heard no word from Bruce, she wandered out of the massive room, carefully shutting the door behind her. She walked lightly through the hallway, hoping to wake Alfred and hoping not to at the same time. Some distance away she saw a door with a crack of light escaping in a thin line underneath it—she approached it with every intention of knocking softly and finding Bruce, but she heard hushed voices speaking from within.

"Master Wayne—"

"For the love of God, Alfred, my name is Bruce."

"Nonetheless, I feel I must impress upon you the importance of nonviolent solutions to your problems."

She heard Bruce chuckle. "Let me assure you that there wasn't one."

"Forgive me for sounding too bold in saying that I do believe you are wrong in saying that, Master Wayne. It worries me that you seem to be under the delusion that you are invincible—"

"Hardly," Bruce muttered.

"Obviously," Alfred corrected, his words more clipped than usual. There was a momentary pause in the conversation, at which point she backed away from the door, afraid that it might unexpectedly swivel open and reveal her. But Alfred continued: "Do you intend to share how you inflicted this upon yourself? It doesn't look like a one man job, sir."

"No, sir, it wasn't," Bruce drawled sarcastically. "Now if you'll excuse me."

"Where do you think you are going, bleeding like some sort of—"

It was the first time Rachel had ever heard Alfred try to raise his voice at Bruce. Instinct told her to dash back down the hallway and pretend she was only just leaving his parents' room, but curiosity claimed her. She wondered how Bruce would react.

"I have to take Rachel home," Bruce said softly.

So Bruce was not beyond being disciplined. She had feared he might lash out at the butler, but she knew Bruce better. Alfred was the only family he knew.

"Are you saying that you dragged Miss Dawes into your conflict as well?" Alfred demanded.

"No."

"Then how on earth can you explain—"

"It was my fault," Rachel admitted, swinging the door open.

Neither of them reacted at first—Rachel knew from experience that Bruce and Alfred were two people who were barely ever surprised, considering all the mayhem they'd encountered. After the initial confusion had past she saw Bruce blow air out of his mouth, irritated at her for busting in. She didn't meet his eyes, knowing she'd probably see something along the lines of Way to go, princess. By averting her gaze she met Alfred's instead.

He was staring at the dress. Just for a fleeting moment, and not in a judgmental way. He seemed a bit stricken by it, but he smiled a bit and looked away, all in a second that passed by so quickly that Rachel couldn't have been sure it happened. Feeling like an intruder, she self-consciously backed away, not quite sure who was the more safe to look at.

"Miss Dawes," said Alfred gruffly.

"Alfred."

Dead silence. She took a bold step forward into what could only be described as enemy territory and said again, "Bruce was just trying to—"

"You don't have to tell him," Bruce interrupted with a stern look.

She shot him a frustrated glare. "I don't want him thinking you were up to something, that's not fair."

"I'll explain to Alfred."

Alfred made a disbelieving noise from the other side of the room, and Rachel looked over at him earnestly and said, "Really, Alfred, I was being a complete idiot and if Bruce hadn't shown up when he did then God only knows where I'd be right now." Before she'd even managed to spit out the entire sentence she'd shuddered in revulsion at the idea of what Gary had been planning to do. In all the commotion she hadn't much dwelled on it, but now it made her sick to think that she'd been so blithe and unaware about following him around.

Bruce was standing beside her silently. Alfred studied each of their faces in turn, as if determining which of them held the most truth in their statements. When he sighed to himself resignedly, Rachel knew that Alfred had leaned toward her.

"All right. I will drive Miss Dawes home, but you, Master Wayne, are to remain here."

"If I don't come along her parents will ask questions."

Alfred raised an eyebrow at him, giving him another once-over. "Believe me, sir, they will ask questions whether or not you accompany us."

"Bruce." Rachel stood her ground to the best of her ability. It was so easy to think of hurting Bruce when she was sitting idly in front of her bedroom mirror primping for the dance, but now that she was right in front of him she felt her insides churning with regret. He stared at her for a moment with an injured look on his face. How could you take his side? he was demanding of her. She had to be practical, though. He really was hurt. She was afraid that, yet again, Bruce would grossly underestimate his own limits. And she couldn't take that risk tonight, with him in that state.

He deflated, sinking into a chair.

"I trust you have everything you need with you," Alfred said to her kindly.

She gave him a curt nod. Alfred studied Bruce a moment more, determining, no doubt, whether or not it was safe to leave him by himself. But Bruce was seventeen by now and Alfred knew as well as Rachel that any jurisdiction Alfred may have over him was already running thin. Alfred left the room, intending for Rachel to follow.

It was too difficult to leave him. He was staring at his loafers, his face in his hands, probably assuming she'd already left. It felt like she was invading his privacy by remaining here. She wished she could say something, but all the words sounded jumbled and unconnected in her head. What would she say? How should she start? I love you. What would I ever do without you? Please don't be upset, this was entirely my fault. I don't want to leave. If you weren't hurt, if I didn't have a curfew, if we had all the time in the world then maybe I'd kiss you again and it would feel like it had really happened when we woke up in the morning . . . I don't want to wake up tomorrow and pretend this never happened. I want to always know that you care, not just when I'm in trouble. I want us to always be there for each other, forever. Why is everything so complicated when it comes to me and you?

Instead she swallowed hard and left the room, resolutely not looking back at him. They were too young. Maybe there would be a time she could say all she'd been itching to say . . . but now was not that time.

She followed Alfred out the door.

The drive home was silent. Her thoughts were still reeling, the events of the past few hours flashing haphazardly in and out of her vision. It seemed like she had only blinked a few times when Alfred finally pulled onto her street and slowed to accommodate the speed limit.

"Are you sure you're quite alright, Miss Dawes?" he asked protectively.

She smiled. Alfred was, perhaps, as protective of her as her own father. "Yes, I'm sure."

He glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "What exactly . . ."

Alfred could always count on her to tell the truth. She sighed, staring down at her hands and her midnight blue fingernails. How odd, that her nails were painted, she thought idly. It had matched her dress before she'd changed. Now it seemed so childish and unsuited.

"I was being stupid. I guess I was trying to . . . get a rise out of Bruce," she admitted, wincing, "and I went to the dance with some other boy. He, uh, tried to take advantage of me." She swallowed. "I mean, it was pretty bad. But Bruce—" She had to crack a grin, wondering at the absurdity of it all— "he'd followed me out of the dance, and fought, like, probably four guys so I could get out of there." Without much thought behind it she laughed. "How many guys would actually follow a girl out of a dance like that?"

Alfred seemed to find some humor in the situation, too. His lips curled in appreciation with the story, but his eyes still seemed sad. There was some unspeakable weight to his stare, even as he was scanning the road ahead. "At least it ended well enough," he muttered. But she saw that perhaps he'd said this more to reassure himself than to reassure her.

"Well," she said briskly. "Sort of."

The sad eyes of the butler met her own again, and he finally said aloud what had been on her mind for so many years. "I have always respected Master Wayne's fearlessness," he said slowly. "But I fear at times that the boy thinks himself invincible."

Rachel nodded, but she knew he wasn't invincible, even if Bruce thought he was. And not because she'd seen him bleed. But because she'd seen the way he'd looked at her, so torn and afraid, at the very notion of someone hurting her. Bruce was not beyond pain.

Sometimes she just needed a reminder. Sometimes she, too, thought that Bruce was invincible. She had just come to expect it over the years.

Alfred pulled into her driveway. "Take care, Miss Dawes," he bid her.

"You too, Alfred." She smiled at him. "Thanks so much for the ride."

He nodded at her, only pulling away once she'd opened the door to the house. She stood there for a moment, surveying her surroundings, the comfort of being home. It seemed like Gary had picked her up here in another lifetime. A completely different dimension. She'd been so excited, so high with the rush of anticipation and guilt and giddiness. She'd practically left this house with wings attached. Now she stood here in a completely different dress with a completely different posture, slumped and tired, deflated and confused.

"How was the dance, honey?"

It was her dad. Good. Her mother would know instantly that this red dress was not the one they'd shopped for earlier that week, and she'd rather not answer any more questions tonight.

"It was . . . different," she said with a dark chuckle.

Her father misinterpreted this. "Oh," he said, raising an eyebrow. "So you and Bruce had . . . fun, then?" he asked in that token over-protective-father tone.

She rolled her eyes. "Not exactly."

He frowned at her then. "What happened?"

"We ate food, we danced, we came home," she said lightly. After we nearly got date-raped and rescued me, that is. "It was fun."

"But?"

"But what?" she asked, exasperated.

"But something," her dad prompted her expectantly.

"I'm tired, is all. We had a great time. Bruce was quite the gentleman, as usual." More so than she would tell her father, of course. "And he obeyed all the traffic laws this time and even got me home before twelve-thirty."

Her dad finally loosened up. "How very heedful of him," he said with a slight mockery toward her. For a moment they were both silent, and she was about to leap up the stairs to her room to change, but he continued. "You know, I really don't mind that Bruce kid. I don't worry about you when you're with him."

A lump grew in her throat and she felt ashamed for never telling her parents she went with Gary. It was too late now, though. So she nodded at her father on her way up the stairs and said, "Yeah, you're right. He just makes me feel . . . safe."

Not because he was strong. Not because of his courage or determination. But because she knew that Bruce would stop at nothing to protect the people he loved.


End file.
